


The Fall

by reveriemystique



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveriemystique/pseuds/reveriemystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Narrative, 1st Person, POV John</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Narrative, 1st Person, POV John

After The Fall--that's what they're calling it now, The Fall--I used to think, every passing face was Sherlock. Every head of curly, dark hair; every large, encompassing coat; every whisper of madness or whiff of delirium. People would speak of him; some claiming to know his whereabouts and others boasting of having been there when he Fell. All of them were false accounts--both common sense told me this and my experiences in the weeks following the incident of hunting down every one of these claims and trying to riddle out the truth. But they're fake, all of them. And I've since grown past hoping beyond reason that they could be honest. After The Fall, I can say, I lost my head a little. When Sherlock was buried, I can guarantee with every conviction that some piece of me got buried with him. Despite whether or not that coffin may be empty, that damned grave is filled to the brim with pieces of myself. And if, someday, God willing, Sherlock returns; those pieces of me will in stay that grave until then, turning, turning, and begging to be brought back to life.

\---

When my sister and I were growing up, she got herself into quandaries often. She'd tell me, with cheeks wet from tears, she'd tell me, "John, never put yourself into anything. Never trust, and never love too fondly. Everything good dies in the end." And maybe she didn't use those words to a tee, but that's what she'd always tell me. I knew, even then, that she was projecting her own troubles on me. I knew her warnings were a probability--but I was the practical one. I was the one who never got into anybody's heart, not because of heeding her warnings, but because I never bothered to get close to anybody. I was the one who went to war to satisfy some urge I didn't know I had when I enlisted. I was the one who never got broken, because never was I in a situation where I could be. But that changed when I met Sherlock Holmes.

The days I knew that mad genius were fleeting. They came and passed like a whirlwind of adrenaline and passion. There was always something going on, some unseen weight of tension swimming in the air and blanketing our Baker Street flat. Even still, when I began to realise the importance he had manifested in my life, and me his, I thanked a God I didn't worship that I had one gift to not take for granted and in turn not have it taken away. And it wasn't until days after The Fall did I think for it to dawn on me that my sister's cracked and ancient words held a bold relevance to me--I had put myself into something, and I got broken in the end. I had loved, and I had lost.

Those moments went by so quickly when we were on the phone. You always anticipate life-changing moments to have some extra vitality to them, like a special filter over the camera that documents your life, knowing that that particular moment was going to be a monumental one. But it didn't go like that at all. It was another day, one marked by the stress of urgency, yes, but still, life is life at any given moment, and that is what you don't expect. This is a lesson I had learned in the battlefield, but soon forgot in the days I spent with Sherlock Holmes, fluttering all over London, solving cases and changing lives. My memory has since altered most aspects of his last moments, but what I recall most was the way my heart beat the second his head hit the pavement. The way I felt a small and centered blast to my skull as if I were the one hitting the ground, but really, that day, more than Sherlock's bones did my soul shatter for I had dared to put all of myself into one person and had foolishly expected it to be a lifetime guarantee, that nothing would ever go wrong. And I think that's the part that hurts the most; knowing you've dedicated every single piece of yourself to one life and suddenly having that life ripped away before your eyes because you were naive enough to think it wouldn't happen.

Still, I wouldn't wish my sister's advice on anyone. However I also wouldn't say "It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." What I would say, is, "don't expect the worst but don't anticipate perfection." I wouldn't say it's better to have loved and lost. I would much rather have never loved at all, never met Sherlock Holmes, than go through the pain of losing him. No one, no one, should go through being so invested in someone just to have them taken away from them with lies, deceit, pain, and concrete. Nobody.  
And I know even now that I'd give anything in my life to have Sherlock back. Anything at all to relive those fleeting moments when I knew him, when I had the honour of knowing I was his closest companion. I would gladly bury every piece of myself there is left into his godforsaken grave with the rest of me and him to rot forever if it meant that I could make this stop, this life without Sherlock stop. Or at least for it to have gone a different way, for me to have known the truths there were to know, or just to say goodbye, a real, proper goodbye. Because Sherlock didn't kill himself. Lies killed Sherlock. Games killed Sherlock. Moriarty killed Sherlock.

For so long after Sherlock died, I prayed and hoped and begged for him to come back, for it all to have been a trick. But after so many stiff nights and empty days having passed do I accept that Sherlock isn't ever coming back. This doesn't feel like how Fate intended this to go, if Fate even existed. Sherlock would think that was silly for me to even consider. But that's what was great with me and Sherlock; we were different. And he wasn't mad, not really. He was smart. He was a true genius, really. And I was the genius' friend. The genius' best friend.

Mycroft once told me what I could never admit for myself: When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. And I suppose it's only now I can finally say it's true. When I walked with Sherlock Holmes, I felt the same adrenaline, and the same meaning, that I felt when I was in the war. So naturally, I myself likened the two experiences. But that was yet another foolish thing for me to do. Because despite the many similarities to be seen between the two, there was one very vast and defining difference. When you're in the war, you're taught to not emotionally attach yourself. You're taught to be more of a robot than a soul, more of a shell than a human, more of an animal than a person. You distance yourself more and more from emotional reality, so much so that if you don't keep careful, you lose yourself entirely. Life with Sherlock Holmes had the opposite effect. The more time I spent with him, the stronger my emotional attachment become. The longer I spent with him, the harder I was driven into that life, and feeling the things I felt when he would look at me, or play a beautiful melody on violin. So, in the beginning, Mycroft's words were true. But the longer time drew on, the stronger my bond with Sherlock became. Life with Sherlock Holmes was so much bigger than myself, I realized this quickly enough. And that's not something you shy away from. It's something that amazes you, enlightens you, frustrates you and makes your jaw drop. It's something that puts some new spark in your eye, a new tone to your voice, a new sound to your breath. It's something that changes your life, and spreads like wildfire to all the lives around you. Sherlock had a way with enchanting anyone he came in contact with. Living with him, I'm sure his spell was the strongest on me. But the battlefield isn't a spell. The battlefield is about death, and destruction, revenge, and mutiny. Life with Sherlock, though, was about justice and life and logic and redemption. Sherlock was truly one of a kind, and he chose to play games that ultimately killed him. But Sherlock Holmes was as close to hero as human can get. Sherlock was about life. I got to be a part of that. Every day, I was a part of that.

Miracles have shown me no mercy. And it's no longer my job to hope. Others have taken care of that. People say, that those who've touched the lives of many never truly die. And that's all I really know now. Sherlock will never die, because Sherlock was Sherlock. He did what he did and he was an arrogant pest but he was a wonder, truly. He was amazing and he was a puzzle solver, and the puzzles he solved saved lives. Sherlock couldn't save everyone. He couldn't save himself. But Sherlock Holmes, he saved me. Without Sherlock, I'm not whole. But because of him, I was alive. Because of him, I'm alive. I know how to live. And Sherlock will never die.

Not really.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to LittleHighLittleLo for beta'ing c;


End file.
